


If we could say everything with words, we wouldn’t paint, except I’m a terrible artist and can’t find my words, so bare with me

by ChipperChemical



Category: Clone High
Genre: AKA Van Gogh is insulting, Fluffy, Gen, JFK gets over Ponce: the musical, also hi Clone High fandom, don’t tell Joan, eh same difference, hello lgbt community, i don’t care, interpret it however, just a little drabble while i work on stuff, oooo Van Gogh makes a naughty joke, platonic or romantic, slightly bittersweet at the end, they banter, they have a nice time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChipperChemical/pseuds/ChipperChemical
Summary: Van Gogh and JFK paint a bit and talk about their emotions through self-deprecation and a whole lot of insults.Much easier than actual conversation.[rated teen+ for innuendo]
Relationships: JFK & Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High), JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	If we could say everything with words, we wouldn’t paint, except I’m a terrible artist and can’t find my words, so bare with me

“That looks like shit.”

JFK gasped in faux-offence, looking over at Van Gogh and plastering a look of betrayal on his face as the other boy snickered. It wasn’t unusual for the two to have playful banter thrown back and forth as they spoke — it was their way of showing affection since the very beginning, and they didn’t see the need to change. Still, there was always a reaction.

“Hey, my jock hands weren’t made for your fiddly art!” JFK retaliated, gesturing vaguely to each of their respective canvases. Hanging out in Van Gogh’s room was always interesting, with the walls streaked with paint where the artist had personalised them himself and the beautiful street view from his window; today, Vincent had suggested that him and JFK painted together, and who was Jack to say no?

“You can learn it, John.” Van Gogh rolled his eyes light-heartedly, taking the moment to step back and look at his own work. The brush strokes were short and imprecise, just like his clone father, creating an odd sort of effect which Vincent had grown fond to. Each dash of paint intermingled with the last, showing the world in a whole new perspective, something which Van Gogh took pride in.

“But look at your fingers! They’re.. long, and slim, and good for accuracy! Mine are...” JFK looked at his own hands blankly, “Sporty.”

“Your fingers are good for more things than football, let me tell you that.” Van Gogh snarked, flashing a sleazy grin when JFK’s cheeks flushed, “Besides, art doesn’t need to be detailed or accurate. You can draw however you’d like, really.”

“But your art is good! I want to draw like you..” The jock whined, slouching his shoulders and pouting at Vincent, who just glanced at him bemusedly before turning back to the canvas.

“Don’t think about it too much, Jay. Just let your mind wander and start drawing.” Van Gogh advised, taking a deep breath before starting to paint again.

JFK took a moment to watch Van Gogh. His movements were airy and casual, yet still accurate and elegant, like a ballerina’s. It made him think about the music box he had at home — the one which his foster dads had gotten him for his twelfth birthday — with the slowly-spinning figure and the kind notes. That music box made him feel safe and happy, just like Vincent.

He wasn’t exactly sure what his and Van Gogh’s relationship was, in all honesty, and he didn’t mind either way. Friends, boyfriends, acquaintances: if it meant he got to spend more time with the artist, he’d take it. Van Gogh wasn’t like Jack’s other friends, and the change of pace was refreshing; Vincent never spoke openly about his body count or spouted insensitive comments about girls passing by in the hallways, but rather made conversation about his newest paint project or the funny stories from his childhood.

“If you stare too long, you’ll go cross-eyed.” Vincent piped up, jerking JFK out of his thoughts to see Van Gogh facing him, arms crossed and an unimpressed look in his eyes, something which JFK was accustomed to.

“I just, er uh, zoned out.” JFK admitted, looking back at his own canvas and noticing how different it was to Vincent’s. The ginger’s just looked more... clean, but in a messy way. Art terminology was something that Jack never did and never will bother to learn, even after hearing Van Gogh spout it a thousand times.

“That’s what they all say.” Van Gogh mused, his tone laced with playfulness. It had taken a while, but eventually, Vincent started to show more and more emotion around JFK, even cracking a smile or a laugh every now and again.

“Well, I’m not like ‘them all’, so bleh!” JFK stuck his tongue out immaturely before laughing at his own joke and turning back to his drawing while Van Gogh heaved a sigh. 

“Sure you aren’t, Mister Jock-Fuckboy-Who-Sleeps-Around-And-Is-Captain-Of-The-Football-Team,” Vincent replied, squinting his eyes and poking his tongue out as he focused on the smaller details of his painting, “You’re a walking teen movie stereotype.”

“Alright, quiet artsy kid who is cold and unfriendly at first but then warms up to people and becomes good friends which ends with him revealing that he’s not all that bad.” 

“Name a more iconic duo than my need to differentiate myself so that I’m actually noticed as an individual and my compulsion to fit in so I don’t stand out.” Van Gogh raised an eyebrow, despite not taking his gaze off the canvas, as if to challenge JFK, “Go on, I’m waiting.”

“You and me.” Was the immediate answer which made Van Gogh freeze up and blink a few times. Coming to his senses, he leant back from the painting, looking over at JFK to confirm the sincerity on his face.

“...Okay.” Van Gogh blurted out, feeling a warmth blossom in his stomach at the comprehension of JFK’s words. Him and Jack: an iconic duo. The thought made him smile.

“Hey, don’t get all soft on me now, shortie.” JFK grinned, though there was a certain gentleness to his tone which Van Gogh rarely heard before.

“I’m sorry, I just—“ Van Gogh sniffed, quickly setting his paintbrush down on the newspaper he’d laid out and turning away from JFK, wiping his eyes, “—You caught me off guard.”

“Awwh, it’s okay, Vinnie,” JFK didn’t know exactly where the nickname came from, but it seemed fitting as he carefully turned Van Gogh around and took his hands, squeezing then gently, “We’re a package deal, yeah? Two for the price of one. Two bees in a bonnet. Two...”

“Two..?” Van Gogh prompted, sniffing again. Suddenly, JFK had pulled him into a firm hug, resting his chin on his shoulder and doodling small circles into his back with his index finger. Caught by surprise, Vincent hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arms around JFK too, taking in the strong scent of expensive cologne, paint fumes, and freshly-washed clothes: it was so odd, yet so Jack. They stood there for a while, in each other’s arms.

“We’re like two peas in a pod.”

**Author's Note:**

> them :)


End file.
